Secrets and Lies
by Madebyme
Summary: Set late in Season One. An old hunt rears its ugly head and drags both brothers on a dangerous journey down memory lane. Case fic with flashbacks. Featuring hurt!Sam and minor hurt!Dean


**Disclaimer **- I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.

**Summary** - Set late in Season One. An old hunt rears its ugly head and drags both brothers on a dangerous journey down memory lane. Case-fic with flashbacks and Hurt!Sam

**Thank you **- To **Scullspeare** for betaing this monster twice, your time and feedback is priceless and I can't thank you enough for all your help. I've tweaked and tinkered so any mistakes are mine.

**A/N** – I've struggled with this fic and it feels like it has taken me a lifetime to get it done. But finally here it is and there's just a little warning for some bad language. Hope you enjoy!

**Secrets and Lies**

**Now**

The right hook snapped Dean's head to the left, white spots filling his vision as he fell. He landed hard, lungs punched empty as he collided with the asphalt, hearing more than seeing his silver-loaded .45 skitter out of his reach.

Dean blinked, or at least he tried to, his eye already feeling sluggish and swollen. The shapeshifter, a former weight-lifter judging by the size of his biceps, was now hovering over him his fist already inches from Dean's face.

He tried to move but there wasn't time, the punch slamming his cheek into the crumbling asphalt of the road. Two more hits followed in quick succession and Dean was losing track of time, the pain taking over all his senses.

The two gun shots were loud, the blasts echoing down the brick walls of the alley. Peeling his head from the ground, Dean could see the fuzzy outline of Sam, his Taurus smoking as the shifter fell lifelessly to the ground with a dull thud.

Reaching down, Sam gripped Dean's shirt and pulled him to his feet. Dean let him himself lean into his brother, waiting for his ears to stop ringing and his vision to clear.

Sam's brow wrinkled with concern. "You OK?"

Dean groaned as he pushed himself away from Sam's support, trying to blink away the damn spots in his vision. "I think my bruises have bruises."

Sam snorted, shoving his Taurus into the back of his jeans as his phone started ringing. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled it out, frowning at the number on the screen. "Hello."

"Is it Dad?" Dean heard himself ask, his throat suddenly tight.

Sam shook his head. "That depends. Who's this?"

Letting out a deep breath, Dean kicked out his foot, the body of the dead shifter rocking rigidly to one side, the bullet holes in its chest oozing blood, its skin starting to fizzle and melt around the silver. Definitely dead.

"Are you sure? I thought this was over."

The urgency in Sam's tone caught Dean's attention and he watched as Sam listened intently to whomever he was talking to, his face pinched with worry.

"I'm on my way." Sam turned around, his back to Dean as he headed down the alley in the direction of the Impala. "Don't let anybody inside. OK?"

That's when the worry in Dean's stomach began to churn, tumbling and rolling as he eavesdropped. Something was going down and judging by the speed Sam was walking, it was something big and probably bad.

"Harry? You got that?"

Dean followed, wracking his brain for a Harry. Friend of their Dad's? A previous case? But none of them seemed to fit.

"I'll fix this. I promise." Sam said, looking over his shoulder at Dean. "You're at the cabin? Good. Salt the windows and doors and I'll see you soon."

Sam ended the call, his strides speeding up.

"What's going on?" Dean asked as he staggered to Sam's side, his vision still a little skewed. "Who the hell was that?

Sam's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed deeply and Dean saw his brother's fingers shake as he rammed the phone back into his jeans pocket.

"I've got to go."

"Go where?" Dean barked. "It's three in the damn morning and we've got a body to clear up!"

"To California."

And really he'd been thinking that this was bad. But neither of them had been back there since… well, Jess. "Right. And you're going there because..."

Dean let his words float into the silence of the alley, watching his brother closely as Sam clipped his jaw closed and picked up his pace again, like he was trying to ditch his own brother.

Reaching out, Dean clamped a hand on Sam's shoulder, spinning him around. "There's no way in hell you're going alone."

Sam couldn't even look him in the eye, his gaze focussed somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "Dean, I just-"

"I'm coming. End of subject."

Sam huffed. "Fine. But I'm driving."

"Tell me what's going on and I'll think about it. Otherwise, you're walking."

Sam's gaze shifted, boring into Dean and he could feel his resolve start to melt, along with his need for answers. It was like a five-year-old Sam silently pleading for the last of the Lucky Charms all over again.

And damn it, it really bothered him that this shit still worked.

"Please, Dean. I just... I need to do this."

Dean scrubbed his hand across the back of the head. He didn't like this, not even a little bit. "We're gonna have to call someone to clear up that body."

Sam nodded, holding his hand out for the keys to the Impala.

Ignoring the pit in his stomach, Dean pulled them out of his pocket, letting them hover over Sam's palm before reluctantly let them drop. "You so much as graze a pot hole, Sam, I swear to God you'll never drive her again. Period."

**Then**

Sam opened the kitchen cupboard, cringing at the creaking hinge as it echoed through the silent apartment.

Pausing, he turned his head to the bedroom door. There was no snap of a light switch or flood of light spilling from under the door frame.

Heart racing, Sam released the breath he didn't know he was holding as he shone the flashlight into the cupboard, eyes scanning the contents. Pasta, rice, a collection of dried herbs and yes, cooking salt. Reaching out his hand he grabbed the large container before dumping it into the duffel bag.

Turning around, he carefully avoided the squeaky floorboard as he walked across the room towards the computer desk. Pulling open the bottom drawer, he snaked his arm to the back corner and reached up. Grunting softly, he began to peel off the duct tape from the top of the drawer, feeling the comfortable weight of the Bowie as it dropped into his open palm.

Pulling off the sheath, he inspected the blade, watching as the silver glistened in the flashlight's beam. Not too bad considering how long it had been hidden. His Dad would rip him a new one if he knew how long it had been since he'd sharpened it.

Walking carefully back to the dining table, Sam dropped the knife into the bag.

"Sam? You OK?"

He jumped at the sleep-slurred words. Damn, he must be getting rusty.

Through the shadows, Sam could see Jess leaning against the door jamb, loose curls tumbling over her shoulders. One arm was crossed over her stomach, the head of a blue smurf visible as she ran a hand over her eyes before switching on the light.

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep." At least that wasn't a lie.

"Is this about Professor Langton?" Jess was scanning the room, her gaze landing on the packed duffel bag on the dining table. "What's going on?"

And this was why he hid his weapons, why he dodged conversations about his childhood or what school he went to, and why he shied away from questions about his family. He hated lying to her, juggling two separate lives and waiting for the day it would all fall apart.

"Sam?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said, suddenly lost for words as he nervously rolled his shoulders. "I have to go. I won't be long. A day... two tops."

"But where? Where do you have to be at three in the morning?" Jess's voice was slightly raised, the words shaking as they curled off her tongue.

And Sam couldn't blame her; for questioning him, for being angry, for any it. After all, he was sneaking out of their apartment in the middle of the night with a packed bag. It looked bad. Really bad. "Jess, I-"

"Just tell me."

Sam could hear the plea in her voice, her eyes damp as she took a step forward, her hands resting lightly on his chest as she looked him in the eye.

"Please. Whatever it is, just tell me."

He watched her closely, saw the tears in her blue eyes, the frown that crinkled her forehead. It was tearing him in half.

He thought about lying, or about telling her it was a family business thing - at least that was a half truth.

But he couldn't do either. Slamming his eyes closed, Sam cupped her face and brushed his lips across her forehead, the soft curls of her hair running through his fingers as he pulled himself away from her. "I'll call you later."

He turned around, not able to look at her as he dragged himself out of the door, pulling it closed as Jess called his name.

**Now**

"So spill. What gives?" Dean tapped his fingers impatiently on the passenger door. Sam was overly focused on the road ahead, had been since the moment they got in the car, well over an hour ago.

Dean wasn't surprised by the wall of silence that greeted him. "So, you want me to go into this blind and completely unprepared? Because I don't have a problem flying in guns-a-blazing, shooting first and asking questions later. In fact, that's kinda the way I roll." He shot his brother a side-glance. If Sam could act like petulant kid, then he could play childish games.

Sam remained tight lipped but even through the velvet darkness of the car, Dean could feel more than see him flinch at the words.

"So, this is a job?"

Sam's jeans scraped against the leather of the bench seat as he squirmed, then he cleared his throat. "Yeah."

It was more of a mutter than an actual spoken word, but Dean took what he could get.

"In California?"

"Yeah."

"Old job or new?"

"Old."

Dean swore that even if he got only one-word answers for the next five hours he was going to get the whole story whether Sam liked it or not. "How old? I don't remember a Harry."

"You weren't there."

It was quiet but each syllable was clear.

"This is a hunt you did at Stanford?" Dean asked, trying to piece it all together and suppress the anger he could feel crawling up his spine. "A hunt you did solo?"

"Yeah."

It hit like a punch to his solar plexus, leaving him winded and light-headed.

"So, what? You didn't want to call me? Or Dad?" Dean tried to keep his anger in check. "Hell, you could have called Caleb. Or Pastor Jim. You don't do a job, any job, without back-up!"

A passing car lit up Sam's face and Dean caught a glimpse of his brother's teeth gnawing at his bottom lip.

"I know. I just… I didn't want to bother you. Any of you. It was pretty straightforward and I took care it." Sam paused. "Well, I thought I did."

Dean took a breath, closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten. "And this whole time, you didn't think that this was worth mentioning?"

"It didn't seem like a big deal."

Dean was glaring at Sam, fingers digging into the leather bench seat. "So all that talk about getting away from the job to go to school, that was all just crap? Sam, I practically had to beg for you to come with me to find Dad."

And maybe now it all made sense. Back then, Sam had said he'd wanted out; from hunting, from their way of life. But maybe he just wanted away. Away from his family.

"Dean, that's not what I-"

"Damn it, Sam. I don't… what am I supposed to do with this?" Dean pulled a hand over his face, wincing at the pain around his eye.

"It's not what you think." Sam turned his head towards Dean, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "I had to do it. I just couldn't walk away. Not from this. I didn't have a choice."

The words were rambling and hectic and it took a second for them to sink into his bloodstream. It was only then that Dean caught the sharp edge of guilt and pain in his brother's voice, dampening his own anger.

"There's always a choice, Sam."

A passing car highlighted Sam's frown. "No. There wasn't."

**Then**

Feeling his muscles cramp, Sam let the duffel bag slide off his right shoulder before swapping it onto his left. Glancing at the road ahead, he folded up the map he'd swiped from the bus station back in Palo Alto and shoved it into his back pocket.

The road narrowed into a dirt track and through the treetops Sam could see smoke twirling out of a chimney. He'd been to the cabin only once before, a Christmas party for faculty members and their wives, TA's and a handful of selected students, of which he'd been one.

It looked the same as he remembered. Surrounded by tall trees, it was secluded and quiet. The cabin itself was old but well loved and had most of the modern necessities: running water, electricity, but no phone line or celltowers within range. Sam figured that was why he was here; it was isolated.

Through the dim dawn light Sam could see a light through the cabin window. Heart hammering, his mouth dry, Sam walked up the drive to the front door. Curling his hand into fist, he knocked.

Hearing footsteps approach, Sam took a step back and cleared his throat as the door opened.

The face staring at him was familiar, but the features were twisted into a look that he'd seen too many times in his lifetime. The horror of loss, of sleepless nights and haunting grief all rolled into a single expression of despair.

"Sam?"

"Professor Langton." Sam nodded. "I'm sorry to show up unannounced."

"I see you cracked my secret code," the professor said, his eyes dropping to the floor as he stepped back and welcomed Sam in. "I told my secretary to pass on the message we were staying with relatives."

"I just figured you'd want to be here. I'm sorry, I can go-"

"No. I'd actually welcome the distraction."

The cabin was surprisingly spacious with an open plan kitchen and dining room at the back and a large fireplace surrounded by well-worn leather couches at the front. To the right there were three closed doors; two were bedrooms and the other was a bathroom.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Sam said as he sank down onto the sofa, the cushions supporting his weary limbs.

"Thank you, son." The professor placed a couple of logs onto the open fire, the tall flames licking the wood as it crackled. "It hasn't sunk in yet... that she's never coming home."

Sam wasn't sure it ever would. Even after twenty years, his dad was living a frozen life, not moving forward and still waiting for the nightmare to end, for his wife to return to her family.

"Can I do anything?" Sam asked, feeling helpless but meaning every word. This man had been a solid foundation when he'd struggled with his new life at Stanford. The studying was the easy part, it was the rest that had been the problem: socializing, meeting new people, being alone and separated from his family.

"No, I don't think you can." The professor took a seat by the fire, eyes tracking the dancing flames. "I'm guessing I'm the talk of the campus."

Sam's voice softened. "I've heard some things, but I was hoping to hear it from you."

Sam waited for the change of subject, for harsh words as he was told to leave, for the slamming of a door in his face, but there was nothing.

"I'm not sure I know what happened or how to explain what I saw. Not without risking more than I can afford to lose." The professor looked down at his hands before pulling his gaze up to the nearest closed door, one of bedrooms.

Leaning forward, Sam set his elbows on his knees. "You'd be surprised what I'd believe, sir. What I've seen."

The professor raised his eyes, his gaze locked on Sam.

"What happened to your wife, professor?"

"Harry. We're not in a lecture hall, Sam. There's no need for formalities here."

Sam nodded, gaze fixed on Harry as he turned his attention to the tall flames in the fireplace.

"We were leaving the house and she said she was right behind me, but when she didn't show I went back upstairs to the bedroom. The door wouldn't open and there was smoke coming out from under the door frame. I tried everything I could to open the door but it wouldn't move and then, out of no where, it just opened. There was just so much smoke, but I thought I saw a... man in a long black coat. He was-"

Harry turned his head to the left as the bedroom door squeaked open and a head of sandy hair poked around the corner.

Sam watched as Harry nodded and the small boy, around six years old, pushed open the door and walked into the room. Behind the boy Sam could see a dark-haired chubby toddler, his thumb stuck in his mouth, his other hand gripped tightly by the older boy.

"Sam, these are my boys."

**Now**

The flaming orange sun was poking through the trees on the horizon when Dean opened his eyes.

Groaning, he sat up, every muscle in his body screeching in agony. "How the hell do you sleep here? I feel like I've aged fifty years."

Dean shifted his weight on the bench seat, his ass was numb and his head was pounding, the skin around his eye tight and hot to the touch.

"That's one helluva shiner you got there." Sam was behind the wheel, fingers flicking on the indicator before turning right. "You want to stop for breakfast?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

Sam snorted and made another turn, driving down what Dean guessed was the main strip of what looked like some dead-end town. There were a handful of stores; an auto body shop, a market, a beauty salon. But no diner.

Popping open the glove box and snatching the map, Dean rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. "We'll have to try the next town. Where are we?"

He heard the engine die as Sam removed the key from the ignition. The Impala was parked in front of a diner and judging by the number of cars crammed into the lot, it was a popular one.

"How did you-"

"They have the best short stack I've ever tasted." Sam opened the door, its hinge creaking loudly.

It wasn't that Dean didn't know that Sam had had a life without him; an apartment, a bank account, a group of friends and a girl on his arm. But the knowledge that Sam had been to a town he'd never even heard of, had eaten pancakes at a diner he'd never been to and been on a hunt without him, made the acid burn in his belly.

Following his brother, Dean entered the diner. It was clean and smelled of home cooking, waitresses weaving easily around the stressed parents and screeching toddlers as orders were called with the bing of a bell.

They were ushered to a booth, given two laminated menus and had ordered before Dean could even blink. This place was efficient.

"I'm still waiting to hear what went down." A plate appeared under Dean's nose, stacked high with pancakes and drizzled generously with maple syrup. The side plate of crispy bacon made his mouth water.

"What?"

"The secret hunt you've been lying to me about." Dean winced at his own choice of words, maybe he was more upset about this than he thought.

"You wanna talk about this now?" Sam asked, eyeing his own plate of food.

"I've got an iron constitution." Dean shoveled a folkful of pancake and bacon into his mouth, the syrup trickling down his chin. "I've never heard anything that's put me off my food."

"I don't doubt that." The corner of Sam's lip raised in disgust as Dean wiped the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth.

"They bought the house as a renovation project. No one had lived there for like a hundred years. They did all the work, moved in and lived there almost a year. There was nothing out of the ordinary, no noises, no sightings, nothing." Sam took a sip of his coffee. "Then one day they heard noises in the master bedroom and they could smell smoke when there wasn't a fire. It even set off the fire alarm."

Dean's head snapped up, this sounded a little too familiar.

"It's not the demon." Sam interrupted, face a little pale. "I thought that at first. But it's not. The M.O doesn't fit."

Dean felt every muscle in body relax.

"Then the next day the family dog died of smoke inhalation in the master bedroom."

"Yikes." Dean frowned. "And they stayed in the house after Rover bit the dust?"

Sam set the folk on the plate and pushed it forward. "No, they were packing, just about to leave the house when it happened."

Dean mopped up the maple syrup with the last of his pancake, watching Sam's hands hug the coffee mug.

"I only met her once. She was a published author... one of her books was on my reading list. She was funny and real smart and the way Harry looked at her, you just knew that they were meant for each other, y'know?"

Yeah, Dean knew. He'd seen that look on his father's face a couple of decades ago. Hell, he'd seen it on Sam's face only a few months ago. "So, what happened to her?"

As soon as the words left his lips, Dean wished he'd just put two and two together.

Sam swallowed deeply. "It locked her in the master bedroom. By the time the door unlocked and Harry got inside, it was too late."

Dean nodded, dropping his gaze to his plate. "And there was no fire? Just smoke."

Sam nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.

"So, what happened next? You got your geek on in the library?"

Sam licked his lips as he studied his hands sheepishly. "Not exactly."

"Tell me you didn't just walk into that house totally blind?" Dean's words were shaking as he tried not to holler and draw attention.

Sam's silence said it all.

"You stupid son of a bitch," Dean growled, slamming his fist on the tabletop and feeling smugly satisfied when Sam jumped slightly and shot him a look. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"I know."

"Do you? Because all those hours of having this shit drilled into your skull doesn't exactly seem to have worked, does it?" Dean could feel his face burn. "Damn it, Sam, that's a rookie mistake. And I know you're better than that. What the hell were you thinking?"

Sam was staring out of the window, watching a family of four scramble into a mini-van. "I don't know if I was."

**Then**

It was a traditional family home, the type he hoped of owning one day with Jess.

It had a white picket fence, a wrap-around porch and a children's swing set on the perfectly trimmed lawn. The wooden clapboard siding of the house was painted a pale yellow and the hanging baskets by the front door were in bloom and swaying in the night breeze.

But it was the sight of the bright yellow and black police tape that ran across the front door that reminded Sam that it wasn't a happy family home anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Sam reached into the duffel bag for his Bowie and sliced his way through the tape, using the spare set of keys Harry had given him back at the cabin to unlock the door.

The cold brass of the door handle bit into his palm as he pushed the door open, a heavy feeling of dread washing over his skin as his heart rate skyrocketed, his hand seeking the comfort of the salt container.

The wide beam of the flashlight swam over the living room. There were toy cars on the carpeted floor, two half-full mugs on the coffee table next to a sippy cup and an open gardening magazine on the couch.

It was like the room was frozen in time, forever caught in the moment that would haunt Harry and his boys.

Sam crossed the room slowly, his limbs freezing as he reached the stairs. On the walls up the staircase hung a series of family photographs: wedding pictures, baby pictures, portraits of a happy family of four.

Feeling bile rise up his throat, Sam forced his legs to keep moving until he finally reached the second floor. Following Harry's description of the layout of the house, Sam soon reached the closed master bedroom door.

On a hunt, Dad had always taken point; he was always the first into a building or down a dark track. Sam couldn't remember a time he'd ever done it himself.

Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about how much he wished his brother had his back, Sam took a step forward and twisted the door knob.

Steeling himself, he walked into the room. The luggage was still on the bed, half packed with clothes, books and toiletries, the rest carpeted the surrounding floor. Other than that, the room was pristine, no signs of the horror had that occurred only the day before.

Standing in the centre of the room, Sam stopped dead in his tracks as his breath crystallized into thick clouds of fog.

His heart pounding in his chest, Sam saw a tall man, his face covered in bloody scratches. He was wearing a heavy black coat and standing a few feet away from him by the window.

Instinctively Sam threw a wide arc of salt at the spirit and like static on a cheap TV, it pulsed in and of focus before disappearing.

His gaze still focused on the window, Sam backed up towards the door when he heard a deafening screech coming from somewhere behind him. Then something flew across the room and over his head towards the window.

Sam ducked, arms shielding his head, his ears popping as he heard something shatter against the wall.

That's when Sam smelled the smoke, saw thick tendrils of it curling around his legs. He could hear the roaring of phantom flames but he couldn't see or feel the heat of a fire.

Coughing at the speedily rising smoke, Sam used the sleeve of his jacket to cover his mouth as he ran to the door, the scene all too familiar. He pulled it open a few inches before it was ripped from his hand, an icy chill running up his arm as the door slammed shut, rattling the frame.

Reaching forward Sam twisted the door knob and pulled, his biceps straining but it wouldn't open.

Spinning around, Sam surveyed his surroundings before grabbing the solid wood chair by the dresser. Lifting it high above his head, he threw it at the window just as the spirit reappeared, his wicked grin displaying a mouth full of blackened and crooked teeth as he waved his arm, the chair flying in the opposite direction, shattering into pieces as it struck the wall.

Eyes streaming with smoke-induced tears, Sam threw a handful of salt at the spirit, watching it crackle and disappear before running back to the door. Using his body weight, Sam shoved his shoulder against the wood but it held strong. Stepping back, he kicked out, his foot rebounding off the door.

He was in full on panic mode, his lungs screaming for fresh air, his adrenaline fading as he continued his barrage on the door, kick after powerful kick. Starved for oxygen, he dropped heavily to his hands and knees, his chest rapidly rising and falling as his lungs hacked at the smoke, his vision tunneling.

The next thing he knew he had a face full of carpet and the room was so full of smoke he could barely see his hand in front of his face.

Sam dragged himself forward, hopefully in the direction of the window, his body plastered to the floor. He tried to hold his breath for as long as he could, fighting the urge to gasp for oxygen until his body finally exploded with need.

He felt his lungs inhale sharply, helplessly sucking in the choking smoke, his body sinking further into the floor, rough carpet scarping along his cheek and the corner of his lips.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a creak of a floorboard, then feet thundering up the staircase. And all Sam could think of was his family. They had come to save him.

As he eyelids slid shut and he felt himself fall even deeper into unconsciousness, he thought he heard a voice.

"_You'll never leave!"_

**Now**

"Shouldn't we talk about this first?" Dean said as Sam pushed in front of him, knuckles rapping against the front door.

"Why?" Sam shot back. "So you can talk me out of doing this case?"

"No! Well, maybe. I don't know. You've not exactly been an open book about what the hell happened here two years go!"

Sam sucked in a breath, ready to fire back when the door was pulled open.

"Sam." A graying, middle-aged man stepped forward, his arm curling around Sam's back as he pulled him into a hug. "It's good to see you, son."

"You too, Harry. You, too." Sam stepped back and turned his head. "This is my brother, Dean. Dean, this is Professor Harry Langton."

He wasn't what Dean was expecting; a wise old professor, with nose-perched glasses and a tweed jacket with leather pads on the elbows. Harry looked pretty young, with cropped salt and pepper hair and tired slate-gray eyes.

Harry held out his hand and Dean took it, shaking firmly before Harry invited them into the cabin.

"It's nice to put a face to the name. Your brother talked a lot about you."

"He did?" Dean replied, eyebrows raised. He thought Sam had left everything about their life behind when he went to Stanford. And that included his family.

Catching his brother's eye, Dean saw Sam's half smile before he pulled away, looking at the floor as he took a seat on the couch. "So, Harry, you said that there's something going on at the house?"

"Yes," Harry picked up a pot of coffee from the table and began pouring it into three mugs. "I couldn't live there after... after what happened. But I couldn't sell it either, not knowing its history. It stayed empty for about a year and then about 10 months ago I started renting it out. Then, it started happening again."

"What did?" Dean nodded gratefully as he was handed a generous mug of steaming coffee.

"Same as before. Noises in the master room." Harry took a seat, his eyes dropping to his hands. "But the alarm bells really started to ring when the tenants reported problems with the smoke alarm and smelling smoke in the master room."

"When did this happen?" Sam asked.

"That's just it, I checked the date and-" Harry took a deep breath, his hands shaking. "It was two years, almost to the day since... since we lost Louise."

Dean could feel Sam tense up on the couch next to him. "But no one else has been hurt?"

Harry shook his head. "No."

"And everyone's out of the house? The place is empty?" Dean clarified, trying to catch Sam's eye.

"Yes. I told them that I was going to get the place rewired."

"Good. That's good." Dean looked at Sam, making sure he'd heard what Harry had said. "And before now there's been nothing?"

"Nothing. It's been quiet."

Sam set his mug down on the table. "I'm sorry, Harry. I don't know what's going on, maybe I missed something or-"

"If it wasn't for you I could have lost a lot more than my wife." Harry's gaze flicked to the mantelpiece that was overflowing with family photographs. But it was the beaming faces of two young boys that caught Dean's attention.

"Those your boys?" Dean asked, suddenly not so surprised why this case had Sam wound so tightly, why it all felt too personal.

"Yes, I took them to their grandparents the second it all started to kick off again. I don't want them anywhere near this."

Dean felt Sam flinch.

Harry shifted awkwardly on the chair, like he didn't know if he wanted to stand or sit. "You don't think... I mean with the anniversary..."

Sam sat up taller, sliding to the edge of the couch, his frown grinding deep grooves into his forehead. "Harry?"

Harry looked up, his eyes misty and filled with unshed tears."The dates, the master bedroom. Is Louise doing this? I just don't understand why she would still be here."

Sam studied him closely. "Harry? Did... did something else happen?"

Harry dragged a shaking hand over his eyes and then down his face. "I... I went to house, after the tenants left. I had to make sure, y'know? It was only for a moment, but I thought I saw her. She was standing right in front of me and then... she was gone."

"You saw your dead wife? In the house?" Dean clarified, moving to the edge of his seat.

Harry nodded. "She was in the doorway of the master room."

Dean shot Sam a look over his shoulder. Sam had blanched, his head hung low. This case had just gone from bad to worse.

"Honestly, Harry," Dean said, placing his empty coffee mug on the table. "Given what happened to your wife, it's a possibility. But it's one, in a whole pile of crappy options. The house has a violent history, and right now it's a beacon to just about everything you can imagine."

It sounded harsh, but there wasn't any point in sugar coating it. Clearly, Harry had some sort of experience with this because he was the one who'd called Sam in the first place. "We'll do some digging, check it out. We won't know anything for sure until we do," Dean said as he stood. "Just stay here and we'll call you when we know the score."

Sam walked over towards Harry, saying words that Dean couldn't quite hear as he pulled open the front open, eyeing the thick salt line as he stepped over it.

He felt Sam follow him as he they walked to the Impala and climbed inside, sitting in silence as Dean rolled the keys around his fingers.

"Dean-" Sam said, like he choking on unspoken words.

"We don't know it was her. Harry could have-"

"But the dates fit and after what happened to her..." Sam shook his head.

"We don't know anything. Not yet," Dean snapped, shoving the keys into the ignition and twisting, the purr of the engine taking the edge off his taut nerves.

"Mom was still there."

Sam's words were quiet but the impact still sucker punched him. Dean ground his teeth together so hard that his jaw ached. "Lawrence was different."

"How?"

Dean pulled his gaze away from his brother, foot slamming on the gas as they sped out of the driveway in a cloud of dirt, his fingers reaching for the volume button as Metallica blasted out of the speakers.

**Then**

Sam stared at the ceiling tiles, forcing his eyes to stay open.

His mouth was bone dry and his nose tickled as the nasal canula under his nose pushed oxygen into his healing lungs. But it was the drugs dripping into his bloodstream and dulling the pain in his abused throat that were threatening to pull him under, the room pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

But he had to stay awake. Had to wait for Harry. Had to get the research done. Had to get the hell out of here.

He knew he'd freaked Harry out. He couldn't remember anything about being dragged out of the house, the ambulance ride to the hospital or how he'd been intubated and a machine had helped him to breathe for nearly 24 hours.

And even though he was itching to slide the IV out of his hand and leave, he knew that that would only add to the mountain of burdens Harry was currently shouldering. Sam wasn't willing to add another one to the list.

So he'd be a good patient, let the doctors poke and prod and ask endless questions. Well, for now any way. He at least needed some sort of plan before hightailing it out of here.

The door pushed opened and Harry entered, pulling out Sam's laptop from under the brown coat he was wearing. "I had to smuggle this in. Your nurse asked me so many questions it was starting to feel like an interrogation."

Sam laughed gently before shifting himself up on the bed, his lungs protesting the movement as he coughed, the bitter taste of iron coating his tongue as an alarm beeped on the machine next to him.

"Sam? Take it easy, son."

The room spun and he felt a sturdy but warm hand on his shoulder as he concentrated on breathing through his nose, letting the steady stream of oxygen ease the strain in his chest.

"I'm getting a nurse," Harry said, reaching for the call button by Sam's bed.

Sam shook his head and held up his finger; he just needed a minute to catch his breath.

"I really think you should let me call someone. Jess? Or your brother - Dean, is it?"

Letting his body sink deeper into the hospital-issue mattress, Sam forced himself to relax, the beeping machine beginning to quieten as he thought about Harry's words.

He couldn't call Jess. For one she'd completely freak out and two, he couldn't explain anything and the thought of weaving another lie left him even sicker to his stomach.

For a moment he allowed himself to think about letting Harry call Dean, how good it would be to have his brother here, watching his six and even chewing him out for letting this happen in the first place.

But he didn't know where his brother was, hadn't talked to him in months. And then there was Dad..."No. I'll be OK."

Harry was staring at him like he could see through the carefully built wall of lies Sam had been building since he first set foot in Palo Alto.

"I don't like this, Sam. You could have died, and after everything that's happened, I-"

"I made a mistake." Sam stared at Harry, at the dark circles under his eyes and the slump in his shoulders. He was running on empty. "It won't happen again."

Harry took a deep breath, his body deflating into the chair next to Sam's bed. "I need this to be over, Sam. For my boys, for Louise-"

"I know." Sam shifted on the bed, pushing aside the pain that flared in his chest. "And I'm telling you that I can take care of this. Put a stop to it, for good."

Harry fell quiet, staring at the wedding ring on his finger as he twirled it around, the gold glistening. "OK. But you're not doing this alone, I can't let you. Partners?"

Sam flinched at the word, which made no logical sense because he hadn't been on a hunt with his family for over a year. Yet somehow he felt like he would be betraying them.

But there was a lot of research to do and Sam knew the laptop would only get him so far. At some point someone was going to have to search through the public records at the library, maybe even carry out an interview.

And then there was the whole digging up a grave issue. Right now, Sam doubted he could stand up without breaking into a sweat and gasping like a fish out of water.

He needed someone to pick up the slack. Right now, Harry was the only one who could do that. Sam met Harry's gaze. "Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into? Because once you're in, it'll change everything and you can't take it back. Ever."

Harry's gaze fell to the floor before slowly rising. "Everything in my life has already changed forever. I can handle this."

Reaching for the laptop on the bedside cabinet, Sam set it on the fold-out table over his bed and switched it on. "Then we've got work to do."

**Now**

"You dragged a civilian into this?!" Dean growled, finger stabbing the desk he was sat in front of.

Sam nodded.

"How long?"

Sam stayed quiet.

"How long, Sam?"

"Three days." Sam's voice was hushed, his fingers unconsciously tapping on the edge of the dusty newspaper ledger in front of him.

"You were in hospital for three days and you didn't say anything! To anyone!" Dean took a controlled inhale, his hands curling into fists as he glared at Sam.

Sam sighed, his eyes weary, his shoulders slumped like he really didn't want to keep having the same fight, over and over again. "I was going to tell you. Just not in the middle of a library."

Dean clenched his jaw. "Of course you were."

He heard Sam sigh, could feel the frustration seeping from his brother, the silence getting thicker, almost suffocating.

Pulling his gaze away from Sam, Dean looked back down at his own ledger, searching for a report of a fire or the death of Nathaniel Slater.

Between what Sam and Harry could remember, they had a few leads on the old case, but as least they had a solid starting point. Nathaniel was a middle-aged man who died in a house fire in the early 1900s. He was married but there had been rumours that he cheated on his wife and that she'd left him. Dean rubbed his tired eyes as they struggled to focus on the tiny print. "What kind of library doesn't have their newspaper archive computerized, or at least on microfiche!"

Sam snorted softly, turning over the last page of his book before stacking it with the other four on the desk next to them.

"You hungry?" Dean slammed the book closed, a plume of dust exploding out of the yellowed pages. "Because I'm starving, I'm thinking maybe a-"

"Not happening." Sam didn't look up from the page he was scanning.

"But I-"

"We have to start from scratch on the research and there's no way you're ditching me. Harry and I burned Nathaniel's bones but maybe we missed something."

Dean re-opened the book in front of him and then flipped his brother the bird.

"That's real grown up, Dean."

Dean frowned, mouthing Sam's words back at his brother. And for a moment it was like nothing had changed; that Sam hadn't left to go to school, that he hadn't done a hunt without his family, that he wasn't lying through his teeth about it all.

Finally, after what felt like hundreds of books later, Dean found what they were looking for. "Nathaniel Slater died tragically in his house on Tuesday night in a fire at the property he'd built only a year previously."

"He built the house?" Sam asked, pushing his book out of the way and leaning over the desk.

"Yeah. He worked on the construction and his wife, Marie, was involved with the interior."

"Was the house destroyed in the fire?"

"No." Dean traced a finger over the article as he continued to read. "But it was bad. They don't mention recovering a body, just remains. The coroner mentions that with a fire of this destructive nature, the smoke must have killed him and that he didn't suffer." Dean paused. "So, since he built the place and all, we don't need to do a background check on the property."

"Don't get too excited," Sam snorted, "it could still be the land, or something in the family history or something left behind from the fire, or-"

Dean held up his palm."I think I get the picture."

Sam's smile faded. "Or maybe...maybe it's not Nathaniel at all."

Dean took a deep breath and refused to look at his brother. The last thing he wanted was to have to dig up the remains of a young mother who was torn away from her family too soon.

Returning to the newspaper article, Dean scanned the last two paragraphs. "Bingo. I've got the funeral details. Does Rosewood Cemetery ring any bells?"

Sam frowned, sorting through his memories, then he flinched. "Yeah, maybe."

And it was the flinch that told Dean that there was even more to this story that he'd been told. He wanted to punch the secrets right out of his brother.

Eyes boring into Sam's, Dean waited for the truth, for yet another admission.

But when Sam swallowed deeply and didn't respond, Dean pushed himself off the chair.

"Dean, look, I-"

With his back to Sam, Dean held up his hand and walked away.

**Then**

It was dark when Harry pulled the car up in front of a pair of wrought iron gates, vines of roses curling around the iron bars as they grew up the gate and walls and over the sign that read Rosewood Cemetery.

Sitting in the driver's seat, Harry glanced over his shoulder, eyes hooded with concern. "Maybe you should stay here."

Sam shook his head, already exhausted by the car ride now that the cool numbness of drugs had faded from his system. It had only been a couple of hours since he'd discharged himself from hospital. "Spirits don't exactly want to have their remains torched. You need someone watching your back."

Harry nodded, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. "Then I guess we should get this...er... salt and burn over and done with."

During the car ride, Sam had walked Harry through it. But with each instruction he'd given, the more he wished his Dad was barking orders, that Dean was watching his back and telling him he was doing a good job, even for a rookie.

But Sam could do this alone. He had to.

Mentally shaking his head, Sam squared his shoulders and released a steady breath. "Did you get everything on the list?"

"It's all in the trunk." Harry pulled the keys out of the ignition and opened the driver's door.

Following Harry's lead, Sam pushed the door open, hands clinging to the door frame as he pulled himself up, his knees locking as the world around him felt like it was spinning backwards down a drain.

Willing himself forward, Sam pushed through the gray static in front of eyes, his feet following the sound of a trunk popping open.

"Flashlight, shovel, salt, lighter fluid, matches. And a lighter, just in case." Harry slipped it into his jacket pocket and then packed the rest in a black backpack before he took a deep breath, a strained smile twisting his thin lips.

Sam knew a game face when he saw one.

The lock on the gates was easy to pick, even with only a paper clip. Sam just hoped that Harry didn't notice how much his hands were shaking or how many times he'd used the sleeve of his jacket to mop up the sweat from his face.

Once they were inside, Harry pulled out a piece of paper from his back jeans pocket, shone the flashlight over it and walked. Sam followed as they weaved their way around paths and headstones until they were in an older section towards the back of the cemetery.

It was a simple headstone, name and date only, weeds curling up and around the stone. Sam pushed the shovel through the thick grassy sod with his sneakered foot before Harry gently nudged him aside, neither of them saying a word as Harry took over the digging.

Sam clutched the salt, his gaze alert for Nathaniel as he scanned their surroundings. It was a cloudy night, no moon to help him see through the thick canopy of trees so he kept his flashlight pointing in Harry's direction as he peeled away sections of the grass and started to dig.

A breeze teased the hair at the nape of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine but the balmy night air still felt too thin to breathe and everything around him seemed to still like it was on some sort of slow motion replay.

"I think I hit something." Harry was out of breath, his hands and shirt covered with dirt. "Sam?"

Sam blinked, pushing aside the feeling that he'd lost some time. "Crack through it, we need to get the bones doused in lighter fluid and salt."

Shaking himself alert, Sam tried to focus, his ears buzzing. But as Harry's shovel stabbed through the wooden coffin on the third attempt, there was a crackle in the air and then Nathaniel was standing in front of Sam, his blackened teeth visible through his sneer, his cheeks covered in bloody scratches.

Sam kicked the backpack towards Harry, hoping that the message to get the bones burned was clear, when he felt his feet leave the ground. He didn't remember the flight or the fall, just the heavy punch in his chest as the world around him seemed to shrink to a pin point.

Refusing to black out, Sam realized he was laying face down, the dewy grass soaking through his clothes. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself forward, arm outstretched as he reached for the salt container that he must have dropped.

Looking up, he could see the top of Harry's head over the hole, Nathaniel's spirit looming at the edge of his own open grave, his long black coat billowing in the breeze.

"Harry!" Stretching his fingers to breaking point, Sam watched as they bounced off the salt, only pushing it further away.

Harry shouted and Sam raised his head just in time to see Harry's body lifted up and out of the grave. He was thrown 20 feet, narrowly avoiding a headstone as he rolled to a halt.

Digging his hands into the grass, Sam lifted himself up and threw himself forward. His chest howled in pain as it collided with the ground, like his ribs were curling inwards and squeezing around his lungs. Feeling light-headed and winded, Sam's hand curled around the salt and he threw a handful up and over Nathaniel, just as his unpolished boots crackled into view by Sam's face.

With a frustrated shriek, Nathaniel disappeared and Sam hauled himself to his feet, chest exploding in pain as he hacked and coughed.

Staggering clumsily on unsteady legs, the world around him tilting off kilter, Sam collapsed to his knees by the foot of the open grave. His hands reached for the backpack, turning it upside down and dumping the contents onto the damp grass.

Squirting a generous helping of lighter fluid and then salt onto Nathaniel's bones, Sam picked up the matches just as Nathaniel's spirit re-appeared and rushed towards Sam, his features twisted with rage.

With shaking hands and graying vision, Sam scraped a few matches along the edge of the dew-damp box before a spectral hand curled around the back of his shirt and lifted him off his feet, the toes of his sneakers scrabbling for relief.

Dropping the matches, Sam's fingernails scratched at the skin of his neck as he tried to free himself from the spirits hold, his lungs screaming for air as he was lifted higher.

With darkening vision, Sam saw Harry appear from behind Nathaniel's headstone, his arm hurling what looked like a lighter into the open grave. Flames erupted, a rush of heat singeing his skin as he slammed his eyes closed.

There was a high-pitched shriek in Sam's ears and this time he remembered the fall and his ungraceful landing as he managed to maneuver himself away from the burning pit of fire.

Then Harry was by his side, hands helping him sit up as he hiccuped for air, the heat in his chest hotter than flames from Nathaniel's grave.

"This was definitely not what I signed up for," Harry said, a streak of blood dripping from above his eyebrow, eyes shadowed with worry as he stared back at Sam.

Hauling his gaze away from Harry, Sam took a shallow breath and stared at the flames in the open grave, wishing more than ever that Dean and Dad were by his side.

**Now**

Dean watched as his brother pushed Harry's key into the lock of the house, the door swinging open with an ominous creak.

Before Sam could step inside, Dean's arm shot out, fisting a handful of his jacket and shirt. "I got this one."

Sam glared at his brother. "What? No!"

"You think it's Louise, don't you? Harry's wife. You think all the shit going on in this house is her spirit."

Sam's gaze flicked to the floor before settling on Dean's face, his eyes damp, his silence telling.

Dean knew Sam hadn't slept, that he'd worked day and night trying to find anything that suggested that Nathaniel was the root of their problem, for anything that could suggest that Louise wasn't responsible.

But neither of them could find anything on Nathaniel. Nothing on the land, or in his family history and there were no references to any possessions that survived the fire, nothing in a will or anything that was donated locally. He couldn't still be here. "Then you're sitting this one out." Dean glared at his brother, his body blocking the doorway. "I'll go in and see if she shows. If she does, then you're going to Harry's cabin while I... take care of it."

Sam clamped his jaw tight, his lips pinched as he wordlessly shoved passed his brother, almost knocking Dean to the floor.

"Sam, you knew her, it-"

"I'm not letting you do this alone," Sam growled, walking towards the staircase with his back to Dean.

As Sam walked up the stairs, all Dean wanted was to grab his stubborn little brother and haul him the hell out of this house and away from this hunt. But maybe Sam had a point; hunting alone was what had brought them here in the first place.

Shaking his head and ignoring the pit in his stomach, Dean took the steps two at a time before joining Sam in front of a closed door that Dean assumed belonged to the master bedroom.

Locking eyes, they nodded at each other silently, sawed-offs at the ready, before Sam twisted the doorknob.

The room was large, furnished, but it looked like the tenants had emptied the room of their personal belongings. There were no books on the nightstand, no clothes or photographs and the bed had been stripped of its linens.

Dean reached for the EMF reader in his pocket, the alarm shrieking as soon as he flicked it on. "Waiting like sitting ducks to be attacked? This is kind of crazy, even for us."

Sam's top lip curled in amusement as they walked to the middle of room, standing back to back, guns raised.

Dean felt the muscles in Sam's back tense a split second before he saw his own breath cloud, the temperature in the room taking a nose dive.

At Sam's sharp intake of breath, Dean whipped around, shotgun at the ready as he stared at the woman in front of them. She was gaunt and pale, her dark hair was wild and knotted like she'd been grabbing fistfuls of it, her once white nightgown was smoke-smudged and blowing around her ankles in a nonexistent breeze.

"Sam?" Dean stared at his brother, looking for confirmation that this was Louise but Sam's gaze remained fixed on the female spirit.

She looked through them, her eyes alight with anger as her chapped lips curled in hatred. Before either of them could respond, she screamed, a high-pitched banshee of a shriek as she hurled an ethereal oil lamp over their heads towards the window, invisible glass shattering over a tall, dark figure of a man. Nathaniel.

"Sam? What the hell?"

Nathaniel's spirit stayed still, his hands raised in surrender as the woman appeared in front of him, fists pummeling his chest, her sharp fingernails raking bloody scratches down his cheeks.

"_You'll never leave!_" She shrieked, thick smoke and the sound of roaring flames beginning to fill the fireless room.

"It's Marie, Nathaniel's wife." Sam coughed, covering his mouth with his jacket at they both headed for the door. "She must have found out he was having an affair. This is a death echo. They're stuck in a time loop, replaying their death over and over again, every year around the same time they died."

Reaching behind his back, Dean unhooked the small ax from his belt, swinging it towards the bedroom door, the wood splintering as he twisted his face into his jacket away from the smoke. "And the house has been empty for so long no one was here to notice. But how are they still here?"

"I don't know." Sam frowned. "Since no one knew his wife died in the fire, the remains we torched in Nathaniel's grave could have been from either or both of them. They shouldn't still be doing this."

Dean took another swing at the door, the wood in the central panel collapsing, creating a football-sized hole through into the hallway.

Sam was coughing hard, bent in half over his knees, trying to catch his breath when the spirit of Nathaniel flickered into view, right in front of Sam.

"I remember you!" Nathaniel snarled around rotten teeth, patches of bloody skin peeling away from his face as he lifted his arm and swatted at the air. Sam was lifted off his feet and hurled into the wall by the king-sized bed, the plaster crumbling.

"SAM!" Dean yelled, thick smoke filling his airway as he coughed.

"You burned our remains in the cemetery," Nathaniel yelled, his back to Dean as he walked towards Sam, who looked shaken but was still reaching for his fallen shotgun. "It was you!"

Squinting through the smoke and seeing that Sam had the situation under control, Dean swung the ax, trying to broaden the hole in the door, his gaze shifting to check up on Sam.

"I really hate reunions," Sam croaked, squeezing the trigger of the shotgun, a round of rock salt smacking into Nathaniel as he pulsed out of sight with a growl.

Eyes streaming from the smoke, Sam staggered towards his brother, both nodding at each other before they kicked at what was left of the door, their booted feet breaking through the wood, splinters ripping into their flesh.

Tugging at Sam's wrist, Dean shoved him through the hole and out of the room, Dean right behind as they ran down the hallway. Marie's shriek pierced their eardrums as they stumbled down the stairs, Sam fisting Dean's coat, their throats hacking grating coughs as they burst through the front door, collapsing onto hands and knees onto the grass in the front yard.

Dean gasped at the fresh air, feeling the relief of finally being able to breathe. Sitting back on his haunches, he reached out for Sam who was sitting next to him. Cupping Sam's face, Dean clenched his teeth in anger when he saw a steady stream of blood trickle down the side of his brother's face from where he'd hit the wall. "You OK? Your eggs aren't scrambled are they?"

Lungs stuttering, Sam shook his head and Dean removed his hands, clapping a hand on Sam's shoulder as he pulled himself up. He then offered Sam a hand, hauling his brother to his feet. "So, what the hell was that all about?"

Sam took a deep breath followed by a barking cough. "I got no clue, man. There's nothing left to keep them both tied here."

Dean glanced at Sam over his shoulder. "Well, there's the house."

Sam blinked, tear tracks carving paths through his soot smudged face. "They both died here and they both helped to build it, so yeah, maybe that's what's keeping them tied here. Like literal blood, sweat and tears. But how are we supposed to stop them?"

Dean shrugged. "Harry's insured, right?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You can't torch his house, Dean!"

Dean walked down the steps towards the Impala which was parked on the driveway, Sam hot on his heels. "You got any better ideas?"

Sam huffed.

Reaching for the spare can of gas in the trunk, Dean coughed into his fist. "This isn't your average death echo. Their endless loops of crazy have killed people. And we've got nothing to stop them from doing it again."

Dean watched as Sam's shoulders slumped, grim eyes locking with Dean's as he nodded his head.

Without a word, Dean pulled the lighter out of his pocket and walked up the stairs and back into the house.

**Then**

Sam stood, frozen to the spot, in front of the door to his apartment.

He could remember the day that Jess had found it advertised in the student newspaper, how her damp eyes had sparked with joy when he'd suggested that maybe they could rent it together. He could still smell her hair as she'd hugged him tight and squealed in excitement in his ear.

But right now, he didn't want to go inside and face the questions he knew she was going to ask, answers that she deserved. He didn't want to add more secrets and lies to the pile he'd already told her.

All he wanted was to hold Jess tight, bury his face into the nape of her neck and forget the last few days had ever happened.

Harry had dropped him off at the apartment building over an hour ago. He'd walked up and down the street at least a dozen times, trying to weave some kind of truthful lie to explain his absence and his injuries.

But he was exhausted, and he was sure that the pain in his chest was the only thing keeping him on his feet. He checked his watch. It was just after three in the morning. Hopefully he'd be able to slip into bed beside a sleeping Jess and face it all in the morning.

Clamping his jaw shut, he reached for his key and pushed it into the lock before slipping silently inside.

It was dark and the only light was coming from the TV, the sound turned low on an infomercial.

At the sound of the closing door, Jess shot off the couch, wearing the same pyjamas she'd had on when he'd left, and threw herself into his arms, his bag and keys dropping to the floor as he winced at the pain in his chest.

"Where have you been?" Jess scolded, her arms tightening around him. "I've been worried sick!"

He held her close, letting her warmth heal his body as he breathed her in. "I'm here now. It's OK."

With a stuttering breath, Jess pulled herself from his arms and studied his face closely. Sucking in a surprised gasp of air, her fingertips traced over the scratches on his neck. "Are you OK? What happened to you?"

She held his gaze, her eyes piercing his own like she could see right through him, right through all the lies and half truths he was preparing to tell her.

Reaching up, he slid her hand away from his neck and tried not to wince when it brushed over his cracked rib. "I'm sore, I'm tired but I'll live."

"Well, you look more dead than alive right now!" Jess snapped with a concerned frown. "Where the hell have you been? I've called just about everyone we know trying to track you down and I've left you dozens of messages. You said you'd call, Sam! And when you didn't, I thought-"

Jess swallowed deeply, stubborn tears clinging to her eyelashes.

Sam brushed his fingers across her cheek. "Harry needed my help with something and it kinda got screwed up and I just lost track of time. I'm so sorry, Jess, I didn't mean to worry you."

Taking a deep breath, Jess's eyes fluttered closed like she was composing herself. When she re-opened them, all Sam could see was relief and a dark shadow of uncertainty. "I know you are, Sam, I really do. I just-"

Jess paused, biting her bottom lip.

Sam frowned. "What?"

Jess looked up at him, her eyes filled with hope. "Maybe one day, you'll feel like you can share it all with me... your past, your family, what happened in the last few days. All of it."

She stood in front of him, her hand resting lightly on his breast bone, her eyes beseeching.

Sam could feel the emotions bubbling up, ready to spill over, as tears prickled his eyes and fear clenched his guts in a vice-like grip. There was nothing he wanted more than to share everything in his life with the woman he loved.

But he could never do that, could never take that risk or expose Jess to any of it. She was too precious. She was his future. Running his hands though her loose curls, Sam swept her hair off her shoulders and then kissed her lightly on the lips. "A story for another time."

Jess nodded, ducking her head like she was trying to hide her disappointment and it was like he'd been blindsided with a right-hook. He was doing this to her; it was all his fault.

His arms loosened their grip on her, but Jess just hugged him harder like she wouldn't let go, no matter what.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her head and pinched the skin on his bicep so hard he knew it would bruise.

"OW! What was that for?"

Eyes glacier-cool, Jess put her hand on her hip like she meant business. "If you ever disappear like that again, I swear to God, I'll kill you!"

Sam laughed, rubbing his bruised arm before Jess reached out and took him hand, gently tugging him towards the bedroom. "Just so you know, Mr Winchester, it's going to take a lot of meal cooking, apartment cleaning, bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolates before I can even consider forgiving you!"

Sam smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her warm body towards him, his chin resting on her shoulder. "I'll do whatever it takes, Ms. Moore. Whatever it takes."

**Now**

Harry stood motionless in the cabin's living room, his mouth slightly agape. "You burned down my house?"

"Yeah, we did." Dean winced at the memory of the red hot flames and thick smoke, Sam sitting by his side on the hood of the Impala as they watched it burn to the ground. "But it was Sam's idea."

Sam shot Dean a killer look over his shoulder, his brow furrowed as he pinched his lips. "It was the only way we could think to end all of it. For good. I'm so sorry Harry, I-"

"No, Sam. It's OK. Really." Harry reached out and clapped his hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Seriously?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised. "We burn down your house and we literally get a pat on back?"

Harry smiled softly. "In hindsight, I probably should have done it a long time ago."

There was something in Harry's voice. Acceptance? Closure? Dean wasn't sure but something in Harry had shifted, his shoulders less burdened with the weight of the past.

Harry's gaze shifted back to Sam as he swallowed deeply. "What about Louise? I know what I saw, she was there. I just don't understand why."

"She didn't want you to go back into that room. She was protecting you." Sam said gently.

"But how can you know that?"

Sam lowered his gaze, his eyes damp. "We've seen it before."

Dean had to force himself to take a breath, his lungs frozen, his insides twisted. He could still see his Mom standing in front of them in their old house, all blonde hair and blue eyes, just like the last time he ever saw her.

"So she's...OK. I mean this is over, right?"

Sam nodded and Harry's eyes burned brightly with relief.

Stepping to the side, Harry reached out for Dean's hand, shaking it firmly. "I can't thank you enough. I really can't. You have no idea how much this means to me and to my family."

Dean wanted to say that he did, that he understood exactly what it would mean to know that the nightmare was finally over, for good. Instead, he gripped Harry's hand tightly and shook it. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to see my boys," Harry smiled. "Maybe have a family holiday on all that insurance money."

Dean laughed and reached for the car keys in his pocket as Harry wrapped an arm around Sam. Feeling like an intruder, Dean walked towards the car, knowing that Sam was telling Harry to keep the land undeveloped and in the family.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he sat in silence for a minute before twisting the key in the ignition, letting the growl of the engine sooth his nerves. In all his years of hunting, he'd never felt this relieved to have finished a case. And the sooner they could put all of this behind them, the better.

Sam opened the car door and slid in, slamming the door closed behind him. Revving the gas, Dean turned on the radio and drove down the private lane, trying not to notice the reflection in his side mirror of Harry standing on the wrap-around porch, waving.

"For the record, it was the only hunt I did."

Dean's gaze remained glued to the road ahead but he could feel Sam's eyes burn through the skin on his face as he stared. Why Sam had to keep picking at this wound, was beyond him.

"That's swell, Sam." His tone was low and clipped and harsher than it sounded in his head.

But this case had brought to light a lot of things that Dean would have preferred to keep in the dark, behind several locked iron doors.

"I shouldn't have kept lying to you about what happened back then. I don't know. I guess I thought I was protecting you or something. Too close to home, y'know?"

Sam was staring at him again but Dean stayed quiet until he felt Sam's gaze pull away from him.

"I thought I could to do it all on my own - school, hunting, Jess, everything. Like I had something to prove." Sam huffed, his gaze falling to his hands as he picked at a hole in jeans. "I was wrong. And I'm sorry that I dragged you into it all."

From the corner of his eye, Dean watched as Sam stared wistfully out the window, probably re-living the case over and over again in his mind, blaming himself for shit that was out of his control.

Dean had never felt so simultaneously relieved and guilty at seeing Sam being so... Sam.

Taking a deep breath, Dean turned the radio down. "No more secrets, OK?"

Sam looked over his shoulder. "Deal."

Dean briefly locked eyes with his brother. "I'm not saying that you went about this the right way, but you saved a family, Sam. That's a good day's work in my book."

Sam nodded. "Well, I didn't do it alone this time, did I?"

Dean returned his gaze back to the long stretch of road ahead, a smile curling the top corner of lips.

"Partners?" Sam asked, like he was testing the waters.

"Partners." Dean confirmed, turning up the volume of an impressive guitar riff. "But remember, Junior, you're just the semi-decent half of this awesome partnership!"

Sam snorted, dimples crater deep in his cheeks. "Junior?"

Dean grinned, his foot pushing down on the accelerator as they crossed the state border and headed out of California. "Give it time, Sammy, give it time."

The End

**A/N** – Well, I hope you enjoyed this. Until next time, take care, Madebyme


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